


Turn to Face the Strange Changes

by spuffyduds



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Alternate Universe, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-01
Updated: 2010-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffyduds/pseuds/spuffyduds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set pre-movie; goes wildly AU; violent and kind of horrific.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Turn to Face the Strange Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Set pre-movie; goes wildly AU; violent and kind of horrific.

Billy thought this shit was over with when he walked out on Joe, because it was never _him_, right, it was never _Billy's_ idea, it was what he did to keep Joe happy, to make Joe shut up. Shit he did because Joe wanted it, and how do you say no, how do you keep saying no to Joe? He just keeps on and on and on and wears you the fuck _out_, and Billy finally figured out the only way he could say no to Joe was from another fucking country, that's why he's here.

And he thought this new country and new life and new Billy would be more different, would be back to what he used to do and who he used to be, before Joe bent him or broke him or just wore him down or whatever the hell he did that ended up with Billy bent over for him, voice breaking as he came, worn out from fighting and fucking and _Joe_.

And Hollywood was full of pretty girls, right, that part he was right about, but the part about only doing that, getting back to doing only that, getting back to the real Billy, right?--that was wrong. Because here he is in a bathroom, somebody's bathroom, who's hosting this party?--he doesn't remember, he's a little drunk, another thing he thought would change that didn't--and there are lots of pretty girls out there, dancing in the living room, sitting on the kitchen counter passing joints around, and here he is in the bathroom with a guy, goddamnit. And goddamnit even more because it's not just that he's a guy, it's that Billy fucking knows that the reason he's in here with him, the reason Billy followed him is that the guy--Larry, he thinks, or maybe Leo--was kind of an asshole when they were talking, arguing with everything Billy said about the best clubs around here, crowding up in Billy's space, putting a hand on the wall beside Billy's head and leaning into him while he was being loud and wrong about acoustics, about sound engineers, about everything. And bigger than Billy, broader, and looking kind of like--and then he walked off with just a little _come-on_ handwave, didn't even bother looking to see if Billy was following him into the bathroom, and Billy _was_, fuck fuck fuck, he is so fucked, he might as well let Larry fuck him because he's already so, so fucked.

But Larry won't get on with it, what the hell. He got a good start going, Billy shoved up hard against the wall and Larry's tongue shoved in his mouth, yeah, perfect, but now he keeps stopping, looking up at the bathroom window. "The hell?" Billy says and grabs his shirt, yanks him in tighter.

"Oh fuck, I lost track, what day is it?" Larry says, practically in Billy's mouth.

"What? Saturday. I think," Billy says. Gets his fingers in Larry's thick black hair, wants that tongue again.

But the guy just brushes his lips softly against Billy's, and Billy doesn't want soft, doesn't want sweet, got trained out of it. And then Larry says, "I mean, what day of the--" and then he shudders all over, hard, and says, "Fuck. I gotta go."

"You--what? What the hell?" Billy says, and holds on tighter.

"Seriously," Larry says, and he's panting now, short fast little gasps, "Seriously, please, let go, I gotta--" and he shudders harder, reaches out and pulls the chain on the overhead light. Black in here now except for a little moonlight from the tiny high window, and dammit, Billy was looking forward to looking, to kneeling on the hard floor and blowing the guy and looking up at his face as he lost it, and now it's dark and Larry's leaving, yanking out of Billy's grasp, and Billy loses it instead, takes a wild swing in the black and hits some soft part, stomach?

Larry gags and Billy leaps at the noise and they slam into a wall, and Billy's throwing short little rabbit punches into whatever he can connect with and Larry's not fighting back, just keeps trying to get away, shoving at Billy and making for the door, but Billy gets a fistful of shirt and swings with the other fist, yanks and stumbles and then they're both on the floor and Billy thinks maybe they'll finally get somewhere here; when Joe was in the mood to ignore him sometimes half a fight changed his mind.

But Larry's just squirming and writhing under him, shoving at his shoulders, snarling, "Get off, let me--you gotta let me--" and then he flips Billy somehow, he's a strong fucker, he's on top of Billy and Billy's back hurts on the hard floor and yeah, yeah, good. But then Larry's going, he's still going, his hard hot weight lifting off of Billy and goddamnit Billy needed this tonight, needed it bad, needed something anything and he flails a hand out in the dark, grabs something, a wrist, pulls, and Larry says, "Fuck, _don't_\--" and then suddenly _growls_ and lands on Billy and bites into his shoulder, Christ, yes, _finally_.

Billy arches his shoulder up into the bite and his hips up against Larry's hard-on, but then, wait, fuck, Larry's not _stopping_, he's biting harder and deeper and harder and Jesus, that's going past good hurt and into just hurts, into _really fucking hurts_.

"_Stop_," Billy says, but he doesn't, bites harder, Jesus, he's some kind of freaky fucking sadist, "Stop it, fuck, that _hurts_," still harder, and Billy punches him in the ribs.

Larry yelps, stops biting, says, "Oh god," and his voice sounds really weird, whimpery, probably his mouth is full of _blood_.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Billy says, pushing him off, and Larry says, still in that strange wet slurry voice, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Then there's a crash and light comes in from the hall, because the crash was Larry somehow slamming open the bathroom door that they'd locked--there's splintering around the knob.

"Jesus," Billy says, stands up, pulls on the overhead light-chain, and looks at his mangled shoulder in the mirror; his shirt's shredded there too, fibers pressed into the bloody torn skin. He gets a little dizzy, he's not sure if it's from being drunk or looking at the blood.

A blonde girl--Janice, Billy thinks, maybe the owner of the house, the thrower of the party?--walks in, says, "What the--what happened to the door? What happened to _you_? Was that Larry sprinting out of here?"

"Yeah."

"Wow, he was--he looked like--I gotta stop mixing my hallucinogens," Janice says. "Did he _bite_ you?"

"Yeah."

"That's fucked up. You know human mouths are just _full_ of germs, right? You should probably go to a doctor."

"Yeah, thanks, uh, sorry about the door," Billy says, and just walks out, because there's no point in telling her he's got no job and almost no money, so no doctor. He buys rubbing alcohol at a corner store on the way home, stands in the bathroom in his crap apartment and pulls the shirt off, gasping at the pain when the shredded cloth pulls out of the dried blood. Rolls up a washcloth and puts it between his teeth, pours alcohol on the bite and screams into the washcloth.

**************************

That fucked-up night starts to seem like it was hitting bottom or turning the corner or something, though, because in the next week Billy lines up a couple of studio back-up gigs, and once he kicks ass on those the people he works with will talk to other people and he'll get more, and probably he'll be able to make his rent and eat something besides ramen noodles.

He cuts way back on the drinking, because he does not need that much weirdness in his life, and he keeps an eye on his shoulder, which thank god heals up pretty nicely. No swelling, no red streaks, but the teeth marks are taking forever to fade. A couple of times he picks up girls in bars, but he keeps his beer count under full-drunk and, later those nights, he keeps his shirt on.

So he's surprised, a month after that bizarre thing at the party, when he has a full-on alcoholic blackout. He's never had that before, even at his worst, but he's walking in his door at dusk one night and the next thing he knows it's morning and he's facedown on his living room carpet in just his boxer briefs, with the door standing open. He doesn't remember drinking anything, he doesn't even remember buying anything _to_ drink, but his head hurts and his mouth tastes terrible and he's sore all over, muscles and joints, even his jaw aches. His fingernails are filthy, and he can't find the other clothes he had on, anywhere in the apartment. He can't even find the shoes he was wearing.

He shuts his door, climbs in the shower and cranks the hot all the way up, stands there getting scalded until his skin stings enough that it takes the edge off all the other hurts. Mutters into the spray, "I can't keep doing this," and then laughs and says louder, "I only got four pairs of shoes _left_," and stuns himself by suddenly starting to cry. A couple big loud ugly sobs before he manages to stop.

He stops drinking, period.

That's pretty hellish, but he does it. Because apparently he _has_ to, so he sticks it out. Smokes all the time and drinks coffee all the time and sits awake at three in the morning not drinking not drinking not drinking, but he does it.

So he's really stunned when the next month it happens _again_.

It makes no sense, no sense at all when he wakes up again on the floor, filthy and hurting and almost naked. Clothes gone, and yeah, shoes gone. It's not fair, he's been so fucking _good_, Joe wouldn't even recognize him he's been so good, what the fuck is going on?

This time when he lurches into the bathroom he flinches at the mirror because he's got blood all over his face.

He checks very, very carefully in the shower. He has no cuts anywhere.

He tries to think this through, but his brain is a blank white hum, and finally he just gives up, throws some clothes on, another goddamn pair of boots, and walks to the diner across the street. Orders coffee and hopes his stomach settles enough he can get some food after a while, but he keeps flashing back to the fucking horror show in the mirror and the settling is not happening. He leans his head against the back of the booth, pinches the bridge of his nose, tries to breathe steadily.

Diner guy brings him his coffee, grins at him, says, "Rough night last night, man?"

"Guess so," Billy says, wraps his fingers around the thick white mug, tries to think about nothing but the warmth easing into his aching knuckles.

"Yeah, well, everybody goes a little nuts around the full moon, huh?" the guy says, sets a napkin and spoon down and walks away.

"What?" Billy says, and then he starts shaking because he's trying really hard not to do the math but he's doing the math, and after a while he's laughing while he's shaking. Because--it's almost funny, now, how upset he got about Joe fucking him, fucking him over. Because apparently Billy's one of those people that _life_ is going to fuck over, over and over, every chance it gets, the weirdest way possible.

He laughs and shivers until the diner guy starts staring at him, and then he throws down a nice tip and goes back to his apartment, picks up the phone.

He hasn't talked to Joe since he walked out, but Joe doesn't sound surprised to hear him. Won't let himself, probably. After Billy says "Hi," the first thing Joe says is, "You flunk out of the Hollywood scene already, you cunt?"

"Yeah," Billy says, and then he's just quiet, waits, and Joe says, more softly, "So, you coming back?"

"Yeah," Billy says. "Soon as I can get there." He doesn't need next month's rent, now; that can go for a plane ticket.

"Maybe I'll let you in the door," Joe says, and Billy can hear him taking a drag off a cigarette, and then he's got a little smile in his voice when he says, "You gonna say sorry?"

"I'll say it when I get there," Billy says, and he will, he knows he will. Because when he closes his eyes he can taste it, exactly the flavor Joe's blood will have hot on his tongue, and it tastes so fucking good.

 

\--END--


End file.
